


Opportunities

by mataglap



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Smut, Happy Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 07:06:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15724413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: Hanzo realizes that procrastinating is not a good strategy in his line of work. McCree wholeheartedly agrees.





	Opportunities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloomingcnidarians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomingcnidarians/gifts).



It's been a while since McCree last watched someone nearly die. Turns out he's lost any resistance he might have built up in Blackwatch.

He can't stop thinking about it, turning fresh memories over and over in his head, driving mostly on instinct, with Hanzo asleep and whole in the back seat. He knows perfectly well that Hanzo is merely sleeping off the shock and pain, but every now and then he has to hand the controls over to the car's primitive autopilot and turn around to check anyway. The sight of him curled up in the backseat, breathing evenly, his duffel under his head and McCree's jacket over his body, helps stave off the memory of how heavy he felt, unresponsive dead weight in McCree's lap, in the waning glow of biotic emitters.

It was all McCree's fault, really, for not protesting harder when Hanzo insisted on using their only emitter to get rid of McCree's own wound earlier. The shot had been barely more than a graze, femoral muscle damaged but not torn, far from life-threatening in any way, and he could have easily limped his way out with a proper dressing and a dose of heavy-duty painkillers. Not like he couldn't shoot with a busted leg, and it wouldn't have been the first time either. Hanzo, however, first argued, then insulted him and his lineage, finally threatened to knock him out and leave him behind to finish the mission on his own, and McCree gave in, because they had been friends for long enough to recognize when Hanzo entered _immovable object_ mode, and they needed to get a move on before they lost the advantage of surprise.

And then, of course, Hanzo got shot in the very last gunfight, clean through the fucking lung. McCree had to tape the wounds closed the best he could, give him something for the pain — at least they still had _that_ — and a gun looted off one of the corpses and leave him there, glassy-eyed and barely conscious. They were underground and deep in enemy territory, there was no chance of getting Hanzo out in time for any kind of medical assistance; the only hope, _Hanzo's_ only hope, was that one of the goons they'd dispatched on their way in carried an emitter of their own.

For the longest time he didn't find one. The terrorist cell wasn't terribly rich and all they seemed to have was a useless first aid kit here and there, and he was already imagining going back to Hanzo and sitting at his side until he died, already planning how to get his body out because he wasn't going to leave him behind, when one of the first corpses, nearly at the entrance to the compound, turned out to carry not one, but two emitters. Both were small and well past the expiration date, but McCree wasn't going to complain: he grabbed them and ran back, through dark and empty corridors littered with bodies, suddenly choking with fear that he'd find Hanzo already dead.

Hanzo was still alive but no longer conscious, slumped against the wall McCree propped him up against, slackened fingers still on the grip of the gun. McCree gritted his teeth, cracked both emitters open and sat next to him, then after a moment of hesitation moved to sit behind him, held him close against his chest, tucked his head under his chin and waited.

It was touch and go for an unbearably long time. McCree sat there cradling Hanzo's limp body, palm spread flat on his chest to keep the seal in place and make sure he was still breathing — barely — and waited, not knowing if the expired biotics were actually _doing_ anything, too afraid to lift the dressing to check if the entry wound started closing up. Even if the expiration date was generous and the emitters were still usable, it could have been too late, Hanzo could have been too weak already for his body to handle the boosted regeneration, and as minutes ticked by McCree went beyond fear and past hope, edging towards the blank, numb resignation he'd last felt watching the news from Geneva on a small TV in a dingy bar.

But then Hanzo finally twitched, stirred, grumbled something unintelligible, and McCree held his breath, dizzied with the sudden flood of relief. After another long while Hanzo opened his eyes, looked up at McCree's face, blinking, and his first words were a weak and comically disgruntled 'what are you _doing_?', because of course his first concern after a brush with death would have been the indignity of being cradled like a baby against someone's chest.

The rest — getting out of the compound, changing out of the bloodied clothes, sending a report, stopping at the first grocery store to buy water and their entire stock of energy bars — passed in a silent haze, Hanzo still a little out of it and McCree crashing hard from the adrenaline, neither of them saying anything apart from the minimum required to communicate.

McCree needs a smoke, but he can't bring himself to light up with Hanzo having only just regrown a portion of his right lung, and he wants music to drown out the buzz in his head but he doesn't want to wake Hanzo up, so he just bites down on one of the energy bars, drums his fingers on the steering wheel and keeps driving.

* * *

He finds a perfect hotel to suit their needs, a popular short-stay chain, targeted specifically at travelers passing through the city and therefore the optimal combination of large and inexpensive for the staff to pay minimal attention to customers. In this place, as long as they hide any remaining bloodstains and McCree conceals his prosthesis, they look just as weary, rumpled and boring as everyone else. McCree pays for the room, doing his best to appear as harmless and bland as possible while Hanzo stands to the side, silent and groggy, and it works: their fake IDs are given a cursory glance and accepted without questions, and five minutes later they step into the elevator, keycards in hand.

McCree realizes he completely forgot to mention that they needed their double room with _separate_ beds the moment he opens the door. He groans desperately: he's on his last legs, wants nothing more than to piss and fall face first into the bed, and the thought of going back and rebooking is downright painful.

"Wait," he sighs when Hanzo squeezes past him. "I'll get us a double queen —"

"It doesn't matter," Hanzo says decisively, already bending to unlace his boots. "The bed is big enough."

Sure, the bed is large, enough for two fit men as long as they don't sprawl, but McCree pauses for a moment, surprised, because he expected Hanzo to be the one to protest here. He's slept in far worse conditions himself, curled up under overhanging rocks or sandwiched between teammates who reeked of gunpowder and old sweat, and even if he did mind, he's tired enough for any compunctions to go away. Hanzo is by far more picky, and yet he's clearly made his decision: he's already pulled off his boots and shrugged off McCree's jacket, and he's tugging the borrowed ratty t-shirt over his head, revealing blood-smeared, but unbroken skin.

On a better day McCree would find the sight _incredibly_ inspiring, both Hanzo wearing his clothes and the way his muscles flex when he pulls the shirt off, but right now he's too exhausted to feel anything more than distant appreciation for the aesthetic value as he watches Hanzo beeline for the bathroom.

"Don't take too long, I gotta piss," he sighs, resigned to waiting for his turn.

Hanzo pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "I don't mind if you come in while I shower," he says and walks in, leaving the door cracked open.

McCree has to laugh quietly at himself after he's shaken off the shock. Things are happening that even a day before would have sent his imagination into overdrive and most likely created a situation in his pants, and all he can think of is sleep and the fresh scar he just saw on Hanzo's back.

"Fuck my life," he murmurs to himself.

He gives Hanzo a moment, and when he hears the shower start, he walks in, eyes downcast, takes a piss and scrubs his hands and forearms clean with the world's tiniest complimentary bar of soap. It's surprisingly easy to avoid the temptation of glancing into the mirror when he's busy trying to get Hanzo's blood out from under his fingernails and the joints of his left hand. Washing the rest can wait, since most of the blood didn't penetrate his clothes, and looking for the toothbrush feels like entirely too much effort; all he wants now is to sleep for a small eternity, and he barely has it in him to strip before falling into bed.

***

He wakes with a start, jolted into full awareness by something — a dream, maybe, though he doesn't remember having one — and turns his head. Hanzo is sound asleep to his right, stretched out on his stomach, arms under the pillow and still-damp hair in disarray over one shoulder. McCree's eyes drift again to the scar on his back. What was a gaping wound a few hours before is now nothing but an uneven circle of pink, slightly raised skin; if Hanzo's lucky, it might even fade enough to be near invisible. The magic of biotics: dying one hour, perfectly fine the next. If only it could regrow lost limbs.

His pillow smells nice, of clean linen, and when he lifts his head he can smell Hanzo's shampoo too, and now that he has the presence of mind to notice, he realizes just how much he reeks in comparison. Even if Hanzo let it slide before, he's bound to start complaining the moment he wakes up. It's too much even for McCree's comparatively lax standards, so he slips out of bed, quietly digs the toothbrush out of the duffel and goes to take a shower.

There's a smear of dried blood on the inside of his elbow that he missed before. McCree closes his eyes, puts his forehead against the cold tiles and reminds himself that Hanzo is alive, with no extra holes and snoring slightly just a few feet away. Even then, he knows he's never going to forget the sight of him slumped against that wall and the momentary certainty that it was too late; it's going right into his deep reserves of nightmare fuel, as if he needs any more of that shit after Deadlock and Blackwatch.

 _Stop dwelling_ , he tells himself. When Hanzo wakes up he'll be right back to his normal, snarky asshole self, they'll have another back-and-forth that McCree will win because he _told_ Hanzo using up the emitter for a grazing shot was dumb, and then they'll be on their merry way to another assignment and another chance to get killed. At least he'll make damn sure they have an emitter each next time. Never let it be said Jesse McCree doesn't learn from his mistakes.

He leaves the bathroom finally clean and in a decent, if somewhat morbid mood, and considers for a moment what to do next with Hanzo still asleep, before he notices that Hanzo's eyes are open.

He's lying on his side, now, one arm curled under the pillow and the other where McCree used to be, palm splayed against the sheet as if searching for traces of warmth. When they make eye contact, he pushes himself up into a mostly sitting position, leans against the pillows and pats the empty space next to him without a word. The message is clear — come back to bed — but McCree has no idea why Hanzo would want that, can't come up with any reasonable explanation and the unreasonable ones make him warm all over, so he just stands there, momentarily dumbstruck.

"Sit down," Hanzo demands, and after a second of hesitation adds, "please. I need to talk to you and I don't want to have to look up at you as I do."

It's a good enough explanation, and very _Hanzo_ when he thinks about it, so McCree shrugs, wraps the towel around his hips more securely, walks over to the bed and perches on the edge. Hanzo doesn't move, just watches his attempts to position himself in a way that doesn't threaten accidental exposure, unsettlingly focused for someone who only just woke up.

"You saved my life," he says finally, just when McCree starts feeling self-conscious. "Thank you."

McCree scoffs, relieved to be back on safe ground. "What did you think I'd do, leave you to die? Had to save your ass, if only to remind you that I _told_ you not to use that emitter."

Hanzo gives him a reassuringly unimpressed look. "You did, and you were wrong."

McCree opens his mouth to argue — like hell he was wrong — but Hanzo talks right over him. "Your wound needed immediate treatment, and it was my own fault for being reckless afterwards, even though I knew we were short on supplies. That's not what I wanted to talk about. My memories aren't entirely clear, but I seem to remember you being… unexpectedly terrified for my life. And I'm sure I didn't imagine you holding me close as I was recovering."

McCree flushes hot all over. What felt completely natural in that goddamned shithole sounds _really_ incriminating when said out loud like this. He didn't even think about what he was doing, any reasonable thought processes were well outside his reach at that point, but of course Hanzo would have noticed, even half dead as he was.

"I realized several things down there," Hanzo continues, watching him with laserlike intensity. "The most important was that either of us could die at any moment, like I would have today if it wasn't for your determination to save me. It occurred to me that I should stop postponing certain… opportunities, lest I never get to experience them at all."

McCree just stares back, speechless and well on the way to breathless from sudden wild hope.

"If I'm making incorrect assumptions," Hanzo adds after a moment, voice wavering ever so slightly, "then consider this a proposition anyway. But if I've read the situation right, then… the sentiment is mutual, and I don't want either of us to die without —"

He cuts off, as if searching for words, and in the increasingly tense silence McCree realizes that this is as close to unsure of himself as Hanzo will ever get.

"Yeah," he says, somewhat hoarse. "I did hold you. And I did almost fuckin' cry, if that's what you're gettin' at."

He should say more, because he desperately wants what he thinks he's being offered here — Hanzo is right, he should have made a move long ago — but he's never been much of a conversationalist, and sure as hell not about _feelings_. On impulse, he reaches out instead, takes Hanzo's hand, interlocks their fingers and squeezes hard, and Hanzo squeezes back even harder, just shy of painful: archer's grip. It makes McCree warm all over, tingling with anticipation, so that, of course, is when he realizes the absurdity of the situation: he's in bed with Hanzo Shimada, a scenario he's imagined numerous times and in many variants, and what is he doing? He's _holding his goddamn hand_. Suddenly there's laughter trying to bubble up from his chest and he pushes it down the best he can, because destroying this thing before it's even started would be the _worst_ way to end the day, but Hanzo notices, as he always does, and McCree is wildly relieved to see him smile. It's a real smile, too, not his usual smirk at all.

"Both were very appreciated," Hanzo assures him solemnly.

McCree knows he's wearing the world's stupidest grin now, and he's not sure what would come out if he tried to speak. The hand holding has worked okay so far, so instead of replying he progresses to the next logical step: leans forward, raises Hanzo's hand to his lips and kisses one of the knuckles. It's only natural to kiss another, then, and another, the texture of slightly rough skin strangely intoxicating, and when he gets to the last one, he turns Hanzo's hand palm up and puts a kiss there. He looks up just in time to see Hanzo's smile falter — but in a good way, one that comes with widening eyes and an involuntary inhale, and it's such a good look on Hanzo's always composed face that it sends an electric shiver across his skin.

"We could get killed even tomorrow," Hanzo points out, his hand lax and warm in McCree's grip.

McCree grins even wider, giddy. "That we could. Might be assassins waitin' outside this very room."

"Indeed." Hanzo looks at their hands, then back into McCree's eyes, and the smile comes back, crooked and meaningful. "It would be a shame to miss the opportunity."

"A damn shame," McCree confirms, torn: Hanzo is still recovering, he needs to eat and rest to replenish the reserves his body burned through to heal… but he's laid out half-naked in arm's reach, smirking and looking at McCree with hot eyes, the way he's never done before, not even in dreams, and it would take a far better man to resist —

Hanzo takes the decision out of his hands by abruptly leaning in and pulling him into a kiss.

It's clumsy, neither of them knowing what to expect and not sure how they will fit against each other, and it's probably made worse by the way Hanzo's still half-trapped under the comforter and McCree is awkwardly leaning in from where he's sat — but they're both fast learners, and the second kiss is better, the third is good, and the fourth is so perfect they both gasp and reach for each other's necks to try and get closer. The heat that's been building in the pit of McCree's stomach bursts into flame and spreads, up through his chest, making it hard to breathe, and down, to where his towel is about to betray him. He's wanted this for months, with the sort of quiet, borderline resentful want of a man pining for someone far out of his league, and suddenly Hanzo is kissing him with unchecked enthusiasm, fingers slipping into his hair, and McCree's a few breaths away from yanking him down the bed and devouring him alive.

Hanzo breaks away and presses their foreheads together, palm spread against the back of McCree's head. "I can't believe I had to almost die for you to show interest," he says in a voice that is now definitely uneven.

"I showed it plenty, you're just unobservant," McCree mutters, trying to even out his breathing.

Hanzo snorts and takes a breath, to sass him further, no doubt. Now that he has a fantastic new way to shut him up, McCree does just that, and whatever Hanzo was about to say trails off in a quiet groan. The sound makes him shiver again and he gets one knee on the bed to crawl closer, just as Hanzo tries to push the comforter off, and the resulting flailing struggle has them both laughing breathlessly, until the comforter finally gets shoved out of the way and McCree is pulled onto the bed and half on top of Hanzo, the towel miraculously still in place.

McCree loses himself in the kissing for a while, one hand splayed against the bristles of Hanzo's undercut and the other tangled in damp, fragrant hair, and he thinks he could go on forever like this, because he's already addicted to the way Hanzo kisses. He's always imagined he'd be aggressive and demanding, the way he is with most everything else, but he isn't, not exactly. Not gentle, but not aggressive either. Intense. Searching. _Hungry_. Like he's let go of all the brakes and he's putting everything into it, and McCree takes it all and returns it; the fire in his belly burns hotter and hotter until he has to touch, to let go of Hanzo's hair and slide a greedy hand lower, past his jaw and neck, down his chest and side, to his hip and the incredible ass he's spent way too much time ogling.

Hanzo makes a shamelessly eager sound and, as if it was some sort of a signal, the hands that were gripping McCree's back start roaming hungrily too, across his shoulders and his back, his sides, his towel-clad ass. The towel gets yanked off a moment later. McCree gasps into Hanzo's mouth, because not only are there palms spread on his ass now, fingers digging into the muscle, but his rapidly hardening cock is now right next to Hanzo's, straining through the fabric of his underwear. Hanzo immediately arches under him, and the pressure is so delicious it punches a groan out of him and makes him realize, with blinding clarity, where this is going.

He shudders, momentarily overwhelmed by the realization, so happy he could cry and so turned on he might explode, and hides his face against Hanzo's neck for just a second, to get himself together.

Hanzo stills for a moment under him; it's jarring, and McCree exhales hard before raising his head.

"Are you okay?" Hanzo asks breathlessly. He looks like sex itself, fiery-eyed and red-mouthed and panting, and McCree has to laugh, a shaky chuckle, because what kind of a question is that?

"Never been more okay in my life," he replies with conviction.

Hanzo smiles, no, he _beams_ , a sight McCree wasn't prepared for, didn't even think was possible. "I'm overdressed," he says, so hilariously matter-of-fact that McCree has to laugh again, and pushes at his chest. McCree's more than happy to oblige: he rises to his knees and watches Hanzo reach for the band of his underwear, only to falter mid-movement and stare.

"Likin' what you see?" he asks smugly, putting his hands on his hips to complete the effect.

Hanzo manages a passable approximation of a scoff, spoiled by the heat in his eyes and the persistent smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Size isn't everything," he says loftily.

"Oh, I can use it too," McCree leers, and Hanzo rolls his eyes and shoves his underwear as far down as he can with McCree straddling his thighs.

"Prove it," he challenges, folding his arms under his head.

McCree freezes, because this is a sight that he _has_ to commit to memory _forever_ , no matter what else might happen. Hanzo underneath him, grinning and looking at him with heated eyes, sprawled shamelessly in the sheets with his cock hard and straining, paints a picture so insanely hot that his brain suspends all activity in favor of slack-jawed staring, until Hanzo gets impatient and drags him down again, and he stops thinking for entirely different reasons.

It's barely more than sloppy kissing and uncoordinated grinding against each other. It has no right to be this good. And yet somehow it's amazing, Hanzo's cock hard and hot against his, already starting to slide wetly against his abs, and Hanzo's hands everywhere, and the gasping sounds he's making, and his powerful muscles smooth and warm under McCree's hands. The barrage of sensation leaves no space for thoughts other than the overwhelming sense of rightness and a burning need for _more_ ; he shoves one hand under Hanzo's lower back without breaking the kiss and finally rolls his hips with something resembling intent, and Hanzo immediately arches up against him, gripping his ass and groaning into his mouth.

It's going to end too fast, but even if he was capable of slowing down, he wouldn't. Not when he's wanted this forever, not with Hanzo like this under him, eager, happy and _alive_. Not when they're both already leaking, rutting against each other without finesse, starting to ride the edge of too much — but Hanzo suddenly tenses, muscles coiling under McCree's hands, and flips them effortlessly, as if McCree wasn't two hundred pounds of muscle intent on grinding him into the mattress.

"Come back," McCree protests, not caring in the slightest about how pleading and breathless he sounds, while Hanzo rises to his knees and hastily pushes his boxers further down and off.

Hanzo doesn't need to be asked twice. He straddles McCree, covers him with his powerful body, kisses him long and deep, then breaks away and reaches down between them. McCree glances down, just to see Hanzo's wide palm wrapping around their cocks and pressing them together. The sight is overwhelming and so is the rhythm Hanzo immediately sets: fast, tight pulls with a little twist that he can feel down to his toes. Hanzo's expression when he looks back up is breathtakingly intense and strangely vulnerable, and he closes his eyes and kisses McCree again, sloppier, fingers of the hand he's supporting himself on tangling in McCree's hair. McCree's heart seizes strangely at that — suddenly he's out of air, feels like he's going to choke up — and he has to wrap his arms around Hanzo's shoulders and lower back and pull him closer, trapping his hand between their stomachs and barely leaving him space to maneuver, but it doesn't matter, it's already so good he feels like he'd fly apart if it wasn't for Hanzo's weight keeping him in one piece.

When Hanzo tenses and shudders, McCree forces his eyes open and watches his face twist with pleasure. Of course he's stupidly beautiful even when he's coming, eyebrows drawn, eyes squeezed shut, mouth catching air in little gasps — and then Hanzo opens his eyes and looks at him, and that look, unguarded and awed, pushes him right off the edge he's been balancing on.

Hanzo half-slides, half-tumbles off him when he stops shaking, tugs on his arm until he lies on his side, and presses their foreheads together again.

"Thank you for saving my life," he breathes.

McCree touches his chest without looking, traces the outline of the scar just under his right pectoral with a thumb. "It was in my own interest, too," he murmurs. "Best investment I ever made. But don't make me save your life again, okay?"

"Only if you make sure I don't have to save yours."

"Not before we've explored all the opportunities," McCree agrees.

"No." Hanzo tightens the fingers in his hair, pushes their foreheads together harder. "No dying allowed at all."

"I dunno," McCree drawls, "I might've already associated almost dyin' with incredible sex. Now we gotta fuck some more without getting shot to break the association."

Hanzo threatens to throw him out of bed — fruitlessly, he's smiling too much for the threat to carry any weight — and over the next twenty-four hours, they do nothing but sleep, eat and work tirelessly on making sure there's no trace left of any dangerous associations.

* * *

McCree goes on his next assignment with Hanzo with two latest-generation biotic emitters clipped to his belt. Nothing happens, and not the next mission either. They don't see any use until several months later, when a mission goes so utterly pear-shaped that they burn through _both_ emitters before reaching the hideout.

They're both healed up, the risk of them being found in the hidden basement under an old pub is near-zero, and the owner owes McCree for saving his family a while back, so they're not likely to be sold out — but they still have to wait an indeterminate amount of time until Talon gives up on combing the area. Despite the relative safety, McCree can't help feeling antsy. They're out of biotics again, and he's trying and failing not to remember the possible consequences of that in vivid detail, until Hanzo finally takes mercy on him and reveals he's been carrying a mini-emitter in his backpack all this time. _As a backup_ , he explains reluctantly, _for_ real _emergencies_.

McCree's not sure whether he wants to shout at him or kiss him, but he can't shout, they have to keep quiet — so they end up having sex right there on the floor, with pub patrons above them and enemies roaming the area, Hanzo pressing a hand over McCree's mouth the whole time while muffling his own noises against McCree's shoulder. McCree develops at least two new unfortunate associations after that.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came to life thanks to BloomingCnidarians and the discussion on discord, in which she uttered the following words:
>
>>   
>  Also please give me all the porn with feelings  
>  Add in there some mutual pining and a "we almost died" situation and I am wrecked  
> 
> 
> The "there was only one bed" trope is a bonus, because I couldn't resist writing one where they don't angst about it.


End file.
